“Did you write this?” he interrupted, turning the notebook around and thrusting it toward my face.

I blinked, trying to focus on the blue ink. The handwriting looked like mine. The messy loops, the slanted t’s.

But the words were wrong. Horribly, unspeakably wrong.

I can’t stand the sound of Mateo crying anymore. I want to make it stop. I want to make them all stop. Sometimes I stand over Samuel’s crib and think about putting a pillow over his face just so I can sleep.

Nausea hit me so hard I stumbled back, my shoulder colliding with the wall. The room spun.

“I didn’t write that!” I gasped. “That’s not what I wrote! She faked it! Look at the pages — she tore the real ones out!”